


They Smile When They Are Low

by Nekomata58919



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Not Beta Read, Recovery, Slow Burn, Torture, breif Barry Berkman/Sally Reed, discussions of torture, so all mistakes are mine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekomata58919/pseuds/Nekomata58919
Summary: Barry's struggles continue; Fuches is out there somewhere, and NoHo Hank is in trouble. Everything will change, starting... Now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!   
> I've been dying to write some Barry/NoHo Hank fanfic, and this idea just would not leave me alone. I was a little nervous to, just because it's kind of dark, but considering the Season 2 finale... Yeah. Anyway, despite those tags, I hope people give this fic a chance.   
> Enjoy!

         Golden light flickered at the end of the hallway, making the shadows jump and dance across the walls. It washed over Barry as he stepped into the main room of the monastery. There was blood everywhere. Soaking into the floor. The walls. The pillars. Bodies littered the place.

         “Barry!”

         “Shut up!”

         Barry’s hand snapped up, clicking back the safety on the gun, and aimed it at the back of some guy’s head. Just behind him, he could see NoHo Hank, eyes wide and panicked.

         The large man turned, beady eyes fixing on Barry. A nasty smile curled the man’s lips. “So, you are the one they call Barry, huh?” he asked in a thick Chechen accent. The man sniffed, clearly unbothered by Barry aiming a gun at him. “Thought you’d be more… ah, _impressive.”_

         “Are you kidding me, man? Barry is like, the best of the best,” NoHo Hank chimed in, rolling his eyes. “You do see all the bodies, right?”

         “Get out of here,” Barry growled, ignoring NoHo Hank’s interruption. He didn’t care who this guy was, Barry wasn’t in any mood to deal with it.

         “Yes, I think I will be going,” the man replied, sounding amused. He turned fully, aiming his own gun at NoHo Hank’s temple. “I do have some business to attend to.”

         That was unexpected. Barry took a couple steps forward, only for the man to press his gun against NoHo Hank’s head.

         “Ah-ah. Not any closer,” the man chided. “Follow me and Henry will die. Then I shoot you, too.”

         “What?” NoHo Hank looked at the guy in shock. “Come on, this is totally unnecessary.”

         “I told you to shut up,” the man snapped, glaring at NoHo Hank.

         Barry grit his teeth as the man grabbed NoHo Hank by the arm and yanked him along behind him as he left the monastery. He waited only a few seconds before running after them. Apparently it had been enough time, because when he got out he saw a black car taking off down the road.

         “Shit!” Barry raced down the stairs and into his own car. Jamming his foot against the gas, he sped after them. They turned down several streets, weaving between cars and trucks, and then… were gone. Barry slowed to a stop and slammed his hands against the steering wheel, shouting in frustration.

         He glared down at the fork in the road in front of him. Why had he even chased them? Fuches was his problem, not whatever the hell Hank had gotten himself into. But the desperate way NoHo Hank had called out to him had had Barry reacting before he’d really thought about it. Not that it mattered now. The guy had shaken him, and while he recalled the license plate, again it wasn’t his problem.

         Barry turned the car around and hurried back to the monastery. He needed to track down Fuches. That was the priority. Pulling back into the spot he’d parked before, Barry raced into the building. He’d seen a black van leave from the back, but maybe there was something useful here. NoHo Hank had been setting up in the place, it looked like, so there was a chance there would be a number he could call, or even a list of stash houses if he was lucky.

         Trying to not look at the carnage he’d left behind, Barry searched the place. And came up empty handed. It just went with the fucking night. Barry stormed towards the door, when something caught his eye. He walked over to the large Buddha statue and bent down to pick up a phone. It was on. And based on the background, it belonged to NoHo Hank.

         Barry squeezed his eyes shut. He’d killed— _slaughtered_ —so many people tonight, and without his help, it looked like Hank might die as well. He had to do something. But if he went after Hank, then Fuches would get away. What if Fuches went after Mr. Cousineau again? Or Sally? Barry’s hand shook, curling into a fist around the phone.

         Fuches was helped by NoHo Hank’s men, Barry was sure of it. Whether they knew what had been going on, though, was another story. He swept through the phone, searching, searching.

         “Found it.”

         Barry tapped the number for Ahkmal and held the phone to his ear.

         “You’re still alive!” was how he was greeted.

         “This isn’t NoHo Hank,” Barry said quickly, before Ahkmal could say anything else.

         “Barry?” Ahkmal asked, sounding even more shocked than before. “But this is NoHo Hank’s number?”

         “I have his phone,” Barry replied. “Look, do you have Fuches?”

         “Yes, we got him just in time. You know some crazy guy just started shooting up the monastery? I thought for sure NoHo Hank would be dead with everyone else,” Ahkmal explained. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know if Mayrbek got out, would you?”

         Barry tried to keep his breathing calm, chasing away the mental image of the young Chechen lying on the floor in his own blood. “I don’t know,” he said. “Where are you? Is Fuches still with you?”

         “Fuches is here, yes. We’re at the third safe house, NoHo Hank will know where that is,” Ahkmal replied.

         “He isn’t here. I found his phone,” Barry said, shaking his head. “Just tell me the address.”

         “What do you mean he isn’t there?” Ahkmal asked, alarmed.

         “Tell me the damn address!” Barry snapped.

         There was a moment of silence. “Okay.” Ahkmal rattled off the address and Barry repeated it silently to himself.

         “Good. Don’t tell Fuches I’m coming.”

         That was settled, but now he needed to deal with what happened here. Barry looked around the room, at all the bodies, and a plan formed. He hurried from the monastery and got back into his car. For a little while he drove around the area, and then he spotted what he wanted.

         A pay phone. Barry got out, pulling on a pair of gloves, and dialed 9-1-1.

         “911, what’s your emergency?” a female voice responded.

         Cupping his hand over his mouth, Barry said, “There’s been a shooting at a monastery. I think it’s gang related. There were a bunch of people going in, some were speaking Chechen.”

         “Excuse me, where is this? Who are you, sir?”

         Barry gave her the address and hung up before she could ask further questions.

 

         The safe house was located in some small, seedy looking neighborhood. It blended in with the rest of the single-story houses, completely normal. Barry cocked his gun and climbed out of his car. Fuches was his only goal. He wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

         Barry stormed up to the front door. No hesitation, he busted it open and burst into the safe house. Ahkmal, Yandar, and Fuches all turned to see. “Get out!” Barry snarled at the Chechens.

         Confused and scared, the two jumped up from the couch and ran.

         Fuches raised his hands, backing up. “Now, Barry, let’s not be hasty here.”

         “Shut the hell up,” Barry growled. “You tried to kill Mr. Cousineau!”

         “But I didn’t,” Fuches protested. “He’s still alive, right? And there’s nothing connecting him to the crime, he’ll be fine. Besides, I only did that to protect you. It’s not like you made an alibi of your own. And look, we both messed up here, but I’m willing to forgive you.”

_“Protecting me?”_ Barry prowled around the sofa. “You weren’t protecting me, you were protecting yourself!”

         Fuches shook his head. “No, no, no. I was protecting us both—”

         Barry pressed his gun to Fuches’ chin. “Stop LYING! You have one more chance to tell me the fucking truth for once!”

         “You want the truth?” Fuches asked, the coward facade dropping away. “Here’s the damn truth, then: you are the most _annoying,_ whiny _shit_ I’ve ever met! If I hadn’t been making good money off you, I would’ve dropped your sorry ass a long time ago. All the time _‘Am I a bad person?’_ , _‘_ _This doesn’t feel right, Fuches’,_ _‘I don’t wanna be a killer, Fuches’_ , wah, wah, _wah!”_ Fuches mocked. He sneered. “News flash, dip shit: you _are_ a bad person! You fucking kill people! There’s your goddamn truth, asshole! So go ahead, kill me!”

         Screaming, Barry pulled back and turned away. “FUCK!” He turned back. “No! I’m not playing your games anymore.”

         Fuches blinked at him. “What?”

         “I’m not gonna kill you. I won’t do it. I can change, and it starts now,” Barry said. His eyes narrowed. “But you will leave. For good this time. I don’t want anything to do with you ever again.”

         “Or what?” Fuches retorted. “You just said you won’t kill me, so what makes you think I can’t make your life a living hell? Huh?”

         “I’ll go to the cops. I’ll turn you in,” Barry replied.

         “And I’ll just tell them everything you’ve done,” Fuches said, that damned smug smirk plastered across his face.

         Barry stared him right in the eyes. “Do it. I don’t care anymore.”

         Apparently that hadn’t been the response Fuches expected. He gaped at Barry, then lifted his chin, smug. “I will.”

         Done with the conversation, and with Fuches, Barry simply walked away.

         “Get back here!” Fuches shouted after him. “I will go to the police, and you’ll be put behind bars for the rest of your life!”

         Barry didn’t reply. He left the house and got into his car. Barry wasn’t going to let Fuches manipulate him any more. Maybe Barry was a bad person, a monster, but he would change that. He had to change that. He would find NoHo Hank, and then he would wash his hands of all of this for good.

         And if Fuches did call the police?

         All those bodies in the monastery… People who had never hurt him, some didn’t even know who he was… Mayrbek, who’d only ever looked up to him…

_“Before you, I was nothing.”_

         If Barry got sent to prison, it was nothing more than what he deserved. But that could only happen once he helped Hank. That was his new priority.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read, left kudos, and comments! The fact people are enjoying this so far makes me very happy, and I hope you all continue to like it.

         Throbbing pain and a sharp stinging under his eye was the first thing to greet NoHo Hank when he regained consciousness. He groaned and rolled his head back, only to find he was in complete darkness. As awareness returned, he remembered Batir shoving him into a car, a fist, then pain, then…nothing.

         “Hello?” Hank called out, sitting up. Cold metal tugged at his wrists and ankles, the jingling of chains echoed around him. “Batir?”

         Hank jerked his arms, finding he could move them, but it caused tension around his ankles. The chains were connected somehow, and he was well and truly trapped.

         “Batir? Come on, man, I think there might have been a misunderstanding!” Hank’s laugh felt forced even to him. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot, right? We can talk it out!”

         The sound of a heavy door being opened had Hank tensing. Harsh fluorescent light flickered into existence and Hank yelped, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, not cool, man! A little warning would’ve been nice.” He blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the light, and saw Batir standing by a metal door.

         They were in a small concrete room, with no windows and only one door. A metal door with a big lock. Tucked away in one corner was a bucket. But those weren’t the only things Hank noticed. His clothes were gone. He was completely naked. “What the hell?” Hank shrunk back against the wall behind him, his breathing picking up. “What’s going on?”

         “The boss, he’s disappointed in you,” Batir said, approaching. “You got Goran killed, and then not only do you get all buddy buddy with the Bolivians, but also the Burmese? And you can’t even bring in profit.”

         Hank shook his head. “It’s not like that, promise. I wanted nothing to do with Esther, okay? She just kind of butted her giant head into our business. We were going to bring in a whole lot of money, though! I just need time.”

         Batir loomed over Hank. “The boss is not interested in excuses.” A smile cracked across his lips. “He wants me to break you. Then kill you.”

         Before Hank could think up a response, Batir turned and headed for the door. The lights went out, the door opened and closed, and locked with a click. Hank frowned. Hadn’t he just threatened to torture him? Unless he was going to get his tools? A shiver skittered up his spine like thousands of tiny spiders.

         No. He couldn’t be afraid. Hank took a deep breath, and coughed. The air was musty and dry. Still, he had to stay strong, and he had to be patient. Either he’d escape on his own, or someone would rescue him. That’s how it always happened in the movies.

         Hank just had to wait.

 

 

* * *

 

 

         Barry packed a bag with binoculars, a knife, two pistols, and ammo. He hoped he wouldn’t need to kill the guy that took NoHo Hank, but he had a feeling he would have to. If it did come to that, then he would be his last kill.

         The phone ringing startled him. Barry pulled his cellphone out of his pocket; Sally was calling him. He pressed accept. “Sally?”

         “Barry, hey, uh, I need to talk with you,” Sally said. She sounded like she was trying to not freak out about something.

         Unfortunately, it was not a great time. “Does it have to be right now?” Barry asked.

         “What? How busy can you be? Yes, right now,” Sally replied testily.

         “Fine, okay. Where do you want to meet?” Barry had no interest getting into an argument. Sometimes it was best to just agree. Though that “sometimes” was starting to feel more like always.

         “Um… My place, yeah, meet me at my place,” Sally said. Before Barry could respond, she hung up.

         Barry sighed. It was best to just get whatever it was out of the way, then he could deal with figuring out how to find NoHo Hank.

 

         Sally paced in her living room, arms crossed like she was hugging herself. Barry stood by the couch, waiting for her to finally speak.

         “I don’t know what to do,” Sally finally said, tone tinged with disgust. “I don’t know what to fucking do, and it’s stupid!”

         “About what?” Barry asked, frowning in concern.

         Sally whirled around. “About my scene! You know, the one I did last night? The one where I lied to everyone?” she snapped. “I lied my ass off up there, and they fucking loved it! How messed up is that? I mean, they all came out praising me for being brave, doing what other women couldn’t, telling me how they thought not fighting back is a “bummer” and...and...” Sally cut herself off with a frustrated groan.

         Barry wasn’t sure what to say. Hadn’t she been trying to impress those people? That was why she’d wanted that huge theater, he’d thought.

         “Those people don’t want the truth, they just want lies. Lies that will sell,” Sally spat, pacing again. “And the worst part is, I’m wondering if I should just go with it, you know? It’s my dream to be an actress, so shouldn’t I just do what they say and lie and become famous? But I don’t want my career to be based on lies! People will look up to me, expect me to inspire other women who are going through what I went. I can’t do that!”

         “Then don’t?” Barry said, feeling lost.

         Sally shot him a look. “ _Then don’t?_ That’s your great suggestion? How can I not? If I tell the truth then I won’t get hired.”

         Barry shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

         “Forget it! You wouldn’t understand. I mean, all you have to do is be tall and you’ll get any roll they throw at you,” Sally retorted, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s not like you have to worry that one fucking lie will ruin your entire life!”

         If only Sally knew just how untrue that was. Barry had to bite his cheek to keep from saying exactly that.

         “Look, I can’t deal with this,” Sally said with a sigh. “My career, the class, _you._ I…I think we should take a break, Barry.”

         “What?” Barry’s brows shot up, and he was pretty sure his mouth had dropped open.

         Sally turned away from him. “I want to focus on my career. That was my goal all along, but I got distracted.” She looked back over her shoulder. “I do care about you, Barry, but I have to put myself first, here. You understand, right?”

         Barry wanted to protest, to beg her to reconsider, but he could tell she’d made up her mind. As much as it hurt, he knew he needed to respect her decision. “If… If it’ll make you happy, yeah.”

         Sally walked up to him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. Maybe once everything is sorted out, we can try again.”

         “Yeah,” Barry croaked out, nodding.

 

 

* * *

 

 

         “So, the license plate numbers you sent me belongs to a car being rented by a Batir… Ugh, don’t make me try and pronounce that last name, dude, it’s Russian or something,” Ernie—one of Barry and Fuche’s many contacts—said.

         Barry rolled his eyes, glad it couldn’t be seen over the phone. “First name is enough, thanks.”

         “Good. That all?” Ernie asked.

         “Yeah, that’s all,” Barry replied and hung up. He rubbed his temples and sighed, sitting on his bed. Things were moving slowly—it had taken the rest of yesterday to set aside his heartache temporarily in order to plan—but he was getting somewhere. Barry just hoped that this Batir guy hadn’t killed NoHo Hank. There wasn’t much he could do with just a name and license plate, though, not without the police, and that wasn’t happening. Except…

         Barry got up and grabbed Hank’s phone. He unplugged it from the charger and found Ahkmal’s number again. There was a chance Ahkmal wouldn’t answer him, but Barry was out of options. He hit call.

         “Hello?” Ahkmal answered warily.

         “It’s Barry. Again. Look, I’m sorry about what happened at the safe house, but I promise this will be the last time I’ll call you,” Barry replied in a rush.

         There was a moment of silence. “Alright. What do you need?”

         “Do you know the name Batir?” Barry asked.

         He was answered by what he could only guess was a Chechin swear. “I have only met him once. But I know he was sent to replace NoHo Hank,” Ahkmal said. “How do _you_ know Batir?”

         “He took NoHo Hank. That night. He had a gun to NoHo Hank’s head, so I couldn’t do anything. But I’m looking for him now. Do you have any ideas at all about where he could be?” Barry explained.

         “Ahh….I think so? I’ll get back to you later for sure,” Ahkmal said, and the sound of rustling papers could be heard.

         “Got it.”

         Barry set the phone down and ran a hand over his face. He really hoped Ahkmal had something, because there was no way he would be able to find Hank on his own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

         Hank didn’t know how long he had been held in the room. If the meal times were reliable, then he would have to guess two days. Maybe three. But he couldn’t be sure. What he could be sure of, was that Batir hadn’t hit him even once, and he was still freaking out.

         His meals had consisted of bread and a glass of water. Cliché, but effective in keeping him alive but uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the bucket in the corner hadn’t been cleaned out, the contents filling the room with a rank odor.

         The door swung open and Batir strolled in, dragging a simple wooden chair behind him in one hand, and a small bag and a pair of thick headphones in the other. He set the chair down and pointed at it. “Sit.”

         Hank got to his feet and made his way over. He didn’t feel like tempting Batir into doing anything even crazier than whatever he was already planning. Hank sat, grimacing at the rough texture on his naked skin. Batir took the chain that hung between the ones connecting his wrists to his ankles and bound it to a clasp in the front bar of the chair.

         “What are those for?” Hank asked, nodding his head at the bag and headphones. He hopped he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. If he didn’t show fear, maybe Batir would get bored and leave him alone?

         No answer. Instead, Batir shoved the sack over his head, drawing a string to tighten it around his neck; not enough to strangle him, but enough to keep it in place. Then the headphones went on, Batir adjusting them precisely over his ears through the bag. Hank was now deaf as well as blind. His breathing quickened, but with the bag over his head it felt like he couldn’t get enough air. He had no idea what was going to happen. Batir could be anywhere in the room; if he _was_ still in the room.

         For a while, nothing happened. Hank wondered if Batir had left, content to see him freaking out. If that was all, he could handle it. Yeah. Hank could handle it. He would just sing a song in his head, then the silence wouldn’t be so hard to deal with.

         Pain jolted through Hank’s thigh. He screamed. The electricity sparking through his body caused him to twitch in his restraints. Hank tried to shrink back in the chair, get away from the pain, but he couldn’t.

         It stopped after what seemed like forever, and he slumped in his seat, the sharp pain ebbing into a duller throbbing. He tried to quiet his whimpers, hoping in vain that he might just hear where Batir was. It didn’t work.

         Electricity whipped up Hank’s side, what must have been a taser pressing painfully just below his ribs. Hank writhed, crying and screaming. “I’m sorry! Stop!” he pleaded. The taser jabbed into his arm. Gasping, hiccuping out a sob, Hank jolted forward in his seat and vomited.

         The headphones and bag were yanked off Hank’s head, his own puke dripping out and onto his chest and legs. He coughed and gagged. The faint sound of clinking chains echoed throughout the room, and then Hank was being dumped onto the floor. All he could do was lay on the cold concrete and watch as Batir left the room, locking him in darkness once again.


	3. Chapter 3

         Barry checked his note again. Ahkmal had given him a list of places Batir might have taken Hank to; four of them had been dead ends. There were only two more, so Barry hoped one of them was right. Specifically the one he was heading to at that second. The more time he wasted, the worse Hank’s chances of survival got.

         The building Ahkmal had named was about a mile into the desert near a place on his GPS marked Pinon Hills. Barry parked behind some rocks and green brush, grabbed his pack and his gun, and began hiking. His directions for this one relied mostly on land marks. From someone who’d only been there twice. Barry compared his notes to the landscape. If he squinted, that rock to the left could’ve resembled a dog.

         It took longer than he would’ve liked, and he’d had to backtrack once, but eventually Barry spotted a small metal building. More of a shack, really. The fading sunlight glinted off the sides, setting the place awash in hazy red. Barry hunkered down in the bushes, pulling out his goggles, and raised them to his eyes.

         And then he waited.

         Barry sat there through the night—changing his regular goggles out for night-vision—and saw nothing. The sun rose over the mountains. It was just as Barry was wondering if the shack was another dud that he saw a figure approaching from opposite his hiding spot. It was the large man from before. Batir.

         Barry grit his teeth. He’d found the right place, but now he had to do something about it. Kill him, or not? The best scenario would be to leave him for the police, but how would he do that without putting himself and NoHo Hank in further danger? If Hank was even alive. Barry supposed he could just tie the man up and leave him, letting nature decide whether Batir died or not. Though that meant if Batir escaped, they would both be in danger.

         His mind was made up when Batir disappeared into the shack. Barry grabbed his gun and hurried over, not caring to be stealthy since the place didn’t have any windows. He pressed his back against the hot metal side of the building and listened. Shuffling and clacking indicated Batir was doing _something_ inside. There weren’t any screams. Barry wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

         A calming breath steadied Barry’s nerves, sent him into that cold, emotionless state of mind he was unfortunately familiar with. He turned, kicked in the door, and stepped inside.

         Batir whipped around, eyes wide. He stood by a table holding an array of tools; a scalpel, hammer, taser, lighter, bag, drill. No other doors were visible, and the place was otherwise empty, save for a tiny kitchen, a couch, and a rug.

         Barry trained his gun in the center of Batir’s forehead. “Don’t move.”

         “You again?” Batir sneered, eyes darting around the room once, twice, before steadying on Barry.

         “Where is NoHo Hank?” Barry demanded.

         Batir smirked. “Who?”

         In two quick strides, Barry was up in Batir’s space, the barrel of his gun digging into Batir’s forehead, right between the eyes. “Where. Is. Hank?” he grit out.

         “Kill me and you’ll never know,” Batir replied, a faint shake to his voice.

         “There are worse things I can do than kill you,” Barry growled. “But I’m sure you know that.”

         Batir’s throat clicked as he swallowed, glancing around the room again. There were no escape routes. His hand twitched. Barry whipped his gun across Batir’s head, sending him toppling to the floor. Once again he aimed between the eyes.

         “Show me where he is,” Barry demanded, moving between Batir and the table.

         “Okay, okay, I’ll show you!” Batir raised his hands in surrender. Barry nodded once, curt. Batir slowly got up and turned around. He bent over and yanked the rug out of the way, revealing a trap door. Barry walked up behind him, watching as Batir pulled out a key and unlocked it. He hauled it open. Beneath was a set of concrete stairs.

         “Lead the way,” Barry told him, pressing his gun to the back of his head.

         Batir sent him a glare over his shoulder, but did as he was told. The light from above illuminated the short hallway at the end of the stairs, and the single metal door. A keypad and a light switch were the only things on the wall beside the door.

         “Open it.”

         A second of hesitation, then Batir punched in the code and unlocked the door. The loud bang of the gun echoed through the narrow hallway. Batir crumpled. Barry shook his head, ears ringing. Once it cleared, he flipped the switch. Barry pulled open the door.

         Like a brick to the face, the thick, rancid stench of human waste and vomit hit Barry hard. He backed up, pressing the back of his arm against his nose. Once he felt steady, he looked inside.

         Hank was curled in on himself, backed into a corner of the room, naked, chains clinking from his trembling hands. Slowly, carefully, Barry made his way across the room to him. Though Hank’s eyes were trained on him, watching, it was almost like he didn’t really see who it was. Barry crouched down about a foot away. “Hank? It’s me, Barry. I’m here to get you out.” How he managed to get that out sounding calm, he wasn’t sure. Up close like he was now, Barry could see Hank’s skin—what was visible of it under the dirt and scars and bruises—had become ashen.

         Hank shook his head, shrinking in on himself further. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered something under his breath, bringing his hands up over his face. The fingers on his left hand were swollen and bruised.

         “Hank,” Barry insisted, not sure if he should just reach out and try and get the chains off or not.

         “Not real. Not real. _Not real.”_

         Oh. Barry frowned and cautiously reached out. His fingertips brushed along Hank’s knee. Hank jerked away with a yelp. Barry pulled his hands back quickly, eyes wide. “Hank, Hank, it’s okay, I’m real, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

         Hank’s gaze flicked from Barry’s hands to his face. “Barry?” His voice came out as a horse whisper, quivering faintly.

         “Yeah, that’s right, it’s me,” Barry said softly, reaching out again. Hank flinched, but he didn’t move away. Slowly, Barry brought the key to the lock for the chains around Hank’s wrists. It didn’t fit. Mentally swearing, he stood and walked back out into the hall. Ignoring the blood and brains splattered on the ground and wall, Barry searched Batir’s pockets. His fingers closed around another key and he quickly returned to Hank, who was watching him again.

         “I’m just gonna unlock you, okay?” Barry told him as he crouched down again. Hank nodded. Once again he reached for the chain, and this time the key fit. Barry unlocked the chains around Hank’s ankles and eased the cuffs off. “There.”

         Hank stared at his wrists, then looked back up at Barry, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “...You’re here.”

         “I am,” Barry assured, holding out his hand. Hank took it with his right hand, his grip weak but there. He twitched and whimpered when Barry slid his other hand around Hank’s back. There was no good way to do it, so Barry quickly pulled Hank to his feet. Hank cried out, his legs buckling, but Barry caught him before he could fall.

         “If you can’t walk, I’ll have to carry you, okay?” Barry asked. Hank didn’t respond, so he lifted him into his arms, bridal style. Despite his pained moans, Hank didn’t protest. He was lighter than he probably should have been, but it would make getting him up the stairs easier. Barry managed to get Hank’s arms around his neck and left the room.

         When Barry got to the top of the stairs he paused. He couldn’t just leave Hank naked, but he didn’t have any clothes with him. Looking around the room, he spotted what must have been Batir’s jacket, tossed on the table by the tools. Barry frowned. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do. Barry gently set Hank on the couch and grabbed the jacket. He looked at Hank, who sat where he’d been put down, staring at the floor despondently, then looked outside. “I’ll be right back.”

         Barry returned to the shack in his car and when he got out, he left the passenger door open. Hank was right where he left him, when he got back inside. “You’ll have to stand for a second,” Barry warned, helping him up.

         “Ah!” Hank gasped, cringing, and grabbed onto Barry’s shoulder with his good hand.

         Quickly, Barry wrapped the jacket around Hank’s hips and tied the sleeves, creating a makeshift skirt. Barry picked Hank up again and carried him to the car. He situated him in the passenger’s seat and buckled him in, then got into the car himself.

         Hands on the wheel, Barry stared straight ahead.

_Now what?_

         He’d rescued Hank and killed Batir. But what was he supposed to do from there? Barry looked over at Hank. His eyes were closed and his head had tipped back against the headrest. He couldn’t take him to the hospital, but he definitely needed medical care. He _could_ take him to that shady doctor Fuches had taken Barry after that run in with that feral kid…

         “Yeah… Shady doctor it is,” Barry sighed.

 

         Barry pulled into the parking space behind the pharmacy. The doctor Fuches had taken him to, Dr. Newell, ran a pharmacy mostly as a cover, while his real work happened in the basement. He didn’t know why Dr. Newell hadn’t made it as an actual doctor, but he had skills and discretion, and that was all that really mattered. Barry got out and picked Hank up again. Once he was situated in his arms, Barry went to the back door and knocked three times. It was a little difficult, but he figured it was still audible.

         He was proven right a few seconds later when the door inched open. A hazel eye peered out at him, looked down at Hank, then back at Barry. “You again. But I don’t recognize _him,”_ Dr. Newell said.

         “You know I won’t say anything, so can we just come in?” Barry asked, his tone just a little snappy.

         “Yes, fine, come on,” Dr. Newell sighed, opening the door properly. “You’re lucky it’s a slow day.”

         Barry rolled his eyes and followed Dr. Newell—a lanky man in his mid thirties, with messy blond hair—inside. They walked through the back room of the pharmacy and down a flight of stairs. Dr. Newell unlocked a door and led them into a decent sized room. In the center was an examination table with a light set up beside it, counters and cabinets took up one wall, and various other equipment was set up along the other. There was only one other door and that was for a bathroom.

         “Hm. He looks filthy,” Dr. Newell commented, eyeing Hank with disapproval. “Can he clean himself in the bathroom?”

         “He can’t even stand for more than a second,” Barry said, frowning.

         Dr. Newell crossed his arms. “Then seat him on the toilet and give him a sponge. I assume since you brought him here you know each other? Considering he hasn’t reacted once since he’s been here, he probably isn’t in the frame of mind to be cleaned up by a stranger. I can’t get a clear assessment of his injuries if he’s covered in”—he gestured vaguely at Hank—“whatever.”

         He had a point. Barry carried Hank into the small, but clean, bathroom. He sat him on the toilet and looked around. There was a shower-tub combo, a simple white pedestal sink, and a medicine cabinet. In the niche of the wall of the shower, Barry spotted a sponge. It would have to do. Barry grabbed it, wet it with lukewarm water, and crouched in front of Hank. “I’m just gonna get you cleaned up a little.”

         Hank nodded slowly. Barry wasn’t entirely sure if Hank knew what he was agreeing to, or if he was just agreeing to anything being said. He sighed. Barry let the sponge glide over Hank’s neck and shoulders first, wiping away dried blood and vomit. He was extra careful along his arms and chest, where more of the damage was centered. Barry removed the jacket, re-wet the sponge, and started on Hank’s thighs. Ordinarily, Barry would have been embarrassed, doing something like this for someone, but the haze of horror that had overtaken him on seeing Hank in that cell overpowered it.

         “On the table,” Dr. Newell instructed as Barry returned to the room, Hank in his arms. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what happened?”

         Barry lay Hank on the examination table, being careful to set his head on the flat pillow Dr. Newell had placed on it. “He was kidnapped by another member of the Chechen mob. When I found him he was in a concrete room, naked, and chained up. There was a bucket in the corner for a bathroom, based on the smell. I think his hand or fingers are broken. Otherwise, I don’t know for sure.”

         “Hm.” Dr. Newell frowned in thought as he pulled stirrups out from the examination table. “Do you think he was raped?”

         The way he said it was so casual, it took Barry a moment to realize what he’d asked. That thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “I have no clue.”

         “I’ll have to check, then,” Dr. Newell said. “Can you keep him calm while I do?”

         “I can try,” Barry replied, looking down at Hank. He hadn’t said a word, still didn’t, and simply stared up at the ceiling. Barry rested his hand on Hank’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He looked over at Dr. Newell, who snapped on some latex gloves and maneuvered Hank’s legs into the stirrups. Barry looked away again, feeling Hank should keep at least some sense of privacy.

         “Well, I’m not seeing any bruising or marks on the outside or on the thighs—at least not that would indicate sexual assault,” Dr. Newell reported. A few moments passed.

         Hank gave a cry of alarm, eyes going wide, and he twitched.

         Barry grabbed his other arm, leaning over him. “Hey, it’s okay, relax,” he soothed. Barry shot a glare at Dr. Newell. “What did you do?”

         Dr. Newell ignored his anger. “No tearing inside and no semen, dried or otherwise. So I think it’s safe to say he wasn’t raped.”

         While that was a relief, Barry knew they weren’t done. He let go of Hank’s arm, but kept his hand on his shoulder. “Okay. But can you tell what _did_ happen to him?”

         “If you’ll calm down and let me do my work, yes,” Dr. Newell replied with a huff.

         “Fine.”

         Barry watched and waited as Dr. Newell did a thorough examination of Hank. He checked his hand and fingers, then splinted them. He took Hank’s temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate, and poked and prodded him all over. Every once in a while, he’d stop and make some notes on his tablet. Hank was shaking the entire time, and his breathing was picking up.

         “Almost done,” Barry said, rubbing Hank’s shoulder.

         “Actually, I think I am done,” Dr. Newell said. He swiped a finger across the screen of his tablet, then rubbed his temple. “Now, I couldn’t do an x-ray, but it doesn’t appear he has any other broken bones beyond his fingers. At most his ribs and shins might be bruised. As for his fingers, I’d say that happened yesterday. Those should take about four weeks to heal, and that’s when I’d like to see him again, if possible.”

         “Okay,” Barry said, nodding along.

         Dr. Newell sighed. “Now the reason he’s having trouble standing, he has mild burns on the soles of his feet. It doesn’t appear to be enough for permanent nerve damage, but I’d keep him off them as much as possible for at least three days.” He set his tablet down and pointed out various marks on Hank’s body. “Many of these are electrical burns, meaning he was electrocuted several times, likely with a taser. Now, he is stressed so his heart rate isn’t great, and I can’t tell whether he has any heart problems. When he’s more relaxed, I’d keep an eye on his pulse, even being shocked once can be dangerous. I don’t see any signs he had a seizure, though, so there’s hope.”

         Barry bit his cheek, trying to keep his temper in check. A sick part of him was pissed he’d killed Batir so quickly.

         “Now, based on pallor and the dry mouth, it also looks like he was starved. Not completely, but I’d say he wasn’t given nearly as many calories as he should have. Not only that, based on his reaction time when I checked his eyes, he probably experienced sleep deprivation,” Dr. Newell continued. “I can’t begin to imagine what sort of symptoms he’ll show mentally, but physically he’ll be in pain for a while. Headaches, joint pain around where he was restrained, and pulled muscles. His chances of infection or injury from even something minor are high. I’d recommend that someone keep an eye on him twenty-four-seven. Food should be simple—crackers, toast, broth, that sort of thing. The best thing for him now is a lot of bed rest, food, and making sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

         Barry’s mind was reeling. That was a lot to take in, and it was all so important. “Is there any way to get a summary of all this?” he asked.

         “Of course,” Dr. Newell said with a single nod. “I also have some clothes he can wear. Let me get it all set, and then we’ll talk about the price of your visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we don't know if Barry actually went to a doctor, but it seemed like he had to have gotten better medical help from someone because Fuches' stitches weren't going to help him at all. Anyway, that's the explanation for this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone. I just was having some trouble with this chapter. Got it all worked out, though, so I hope you all enjoy it!

         The motel room was nothing fancy. Plain white walls, maroon curtains over the only window, and a cheap table with equally cheap chairs were some of the first noticeable things. Afternoon sunlight landed across a dusty, boxy TV atop the single dresser. There was one of those small college fridges tucked under a desk, and a single bed with blankets that would have looked like they belonged to a colorblind grandmother. But it was affordable, clean, and no-one would be asking questions.

         Barry eased Hank—newly dressed in a simple black t-shirt and some sweatpants—onto the bed. Surprisingly, he had fallen asleep on the drive over. Careful not to wake him, Barry left the room, grabbed the bag of food he’d bought from a 7/11, and stored it in the fridge. With a sigh, he sat down in one of the chairs at the table and looked over at NoHo Hank.

         Now that he had a moment to sit and think, Barry wasn’t sure what he was going to do from here. He wasn’t a doctor or therapist, he didn’t know how to help him, but he couldn’t just leave him here to fend for himself. Not when he knew what Hank had been through—and he didn’t even know if he knew everything. Barry sighed and leaned back in his chair.

 

         A scream had Barry shooting up out of his seat, suddenly awake. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. But that wasn’t important. Barry could see Hank cowering on the bed, curled in on himself and pressed back against the headboard. “Hank, calm down, you’re safe,” Barry said, slowly approaching the bed. He felt like he was on repeat, but if it helped, it helped.

         It didn’t help. Hank only shrunk back further, his hands coming up to defend himself.

         “Hank, it’s me, you know? Barry?” Barry stopped at the foot of the bed. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

         Hank lowered his hands to peer at him over his arms. He didn’t otherwise respond.

         Barry smiled in a way he hoped was encouraging. “I’m real, remember? We’re in a motel… and a doctor bandaged your fingers.”

         Brows furrowed, Hank looked down at his hand. His eyes widened. “I… What… What happened?” Hank asked, looking up at Barry. He was trembling again.

         “Batir is dead, I got you out of that cell. You’re here with me,” Barry said. He didn’t want to overwhelm Hank with details right yet. “I have food. Are you hungry?”

         Hank uncurled a little. He nodded.

         “Okay. I didn’t get anything big, but, uh, let’s see...” Barry went to the paper bag he’d left on the desk and rifled through it. “Um, I got some saltines. I wasn’t sure what you’d be able to handle, and figured those wouldn’t be too hard on your stomach.” He pulled out the sleeve of crackers, then grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, which he poured into one of the paper cups by the coffee machine. Barry walked back to the bed and set the water on the bedside table—the little analogue clock by the lamp said it was four in the morning—then held out the saltines.

         When Hank didn’t immediately take them, Barry realized he hadn’t actually opened the package. “Ah, oops, let me get that.” He tore open the sleeve and then held it out again.

         Hank reached out, stopped, then took the saltines. He propped them up between his knees and pulled one out with his good hand.

         Barry felt a little awkward hovering over him, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. He backed off a little and sat at the end of the bed, watching as Hank slowly ate. Hank’s eyes darted back and forth between Barry and the saltines, as if they would be taken away at any moment. However, when Barry made no move to do so, he relaxed a little and stopped to drink some water.

         “Uh, I hate to say it but, try not to eat too many of those. It might mess with you later,” Barry warned. “Dr. Newell said to take things slow at first.”

         “…Okay,” Hank said, voice just barely more than a whisper. He managed to finish four of them before pushing the package away and drinking the rest of his water.

         Barry took the saltines and put them away. “So… Do you, uh, want any more water?” he asked, turning back to Hank.

         Hank hesitated, then nodded. “Please.” He watched Barry closely as he took the empty cup, refilled it, and handed it back. Hank practically downed the second cup. But then he winced.

         “What? Are you okay?” Barry tried to see if he’d done anything to accidentally hurt himself, but it didn’t look like it.

         “I...” Hank trailed off, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “…I have to go to the bathroom.”

_Oh. Crap._ Barry hadn’t even thought about that. Of course it would be an issue, Hank couldn’t stand on his own. Which meant Barry would have to help him. He took a silent breath in, out, then nodded. “I’ll help.”

         “You don’t… I can do it…” Hank protested as he shifted to the edge of the bed. He pushed himself to his bandaged feet, cried out, and dropped back onto the bed.

         Barry shook his head and moved to stand in front of him, “Dr. Newell said to stay off your feet as much as possible. Let me help you. Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen,” he said. And it was true. Being in war, modesty wasn’t exactly a priority. Barry held out his hand.

         It took a moment or two, but Hank took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. He hissed in pain and leaned heavily against Barry. “Sorry, it hurts.”

         “It’s fine, come on,” Barry replied, wrapping an arm around Hank’s waist. He took on most of Hank’s weight as they walked to the little, green tiled bathroom. Once they got there, however, Barry wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Do you, uh, need any more help, or if I just keep you upright do you think you’ve got it from here?”

         “I think I can do it,” Hank said softly, not looking at him.

         “Okay.” Barry politely looked away as Hank used the toilet, but kept his arm around him to keep him steady. Hank flushed and Barry was glad the sink was right next to the toilet, making it simple to maneuver him over to it. Once he was done, Barry helped him back to the bed.

         Hank lay down on his side with a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry, Barry. Thank you,” he murmured. His tired gaze stayed on the door. In fact, he hadn’t looked Barry in the eye the whole time he’d been awake.

         “You don’t have to apologize,” Barry told him. Hank hadn’t heard; he was already asleep again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

         Barry shut the door behind him as quietly as possible, but it was difficult with his hands occupied by breakfast. It didn’t appear to matter much anyway, as Hank was already stirring. Barry set the plates of eggs down, along with the forks and napkins he’d nabbed from the breakfast bar in the main building.

         With a startled sound, Hank shot up in bed, head whipping from side to side. He spotted Barry, and after a couple of tense moments he relaxed. Well, relaxed wasn’t the right word, but he seemed less freaked out.

         “I got breakfast,” Barry announced, unsure what else to say. He brought over one of the plates and the water. “Hope eggs are alright?”

         Hank didn’t reply, but he dug into the food with enthusiasm. It was unsettling that he was so quiet. Before, Barry would’ve welcomed some reprieve from Hank’s endless chatter, but now that it had happened, he didn’t like it one bit. He said nothing about it, though, instead choosing to focus on his own breakfast.

         It was only after they’d finished, Barry had collected their dishes, and headed for the door that Hank spoke up. “Don’t leave?”

         “Huh?” Barry turned, brows furrowed. “No, I’m not leaving. I’m just bringing these back… Actually, I can leave them for housekeeping when we get out of here.” He set them back down and made his way over to the bed. If Hank was talking again, then Barry would take the opportunity. “How, uh, how are you feeling?”

         Hank looked up at him. He reached out with his good hand and rested it against Barry’s arm. The confused frown faded from his face and he sighed. His hand dropped back to the bed. But then his gaze turned to the door. “He’ll find us.”

         Barry looked at the door, then back to Hank. He sat. “Who?”

         “Batir.”

         “Batir is dead,” Barry said. Had Hank not heard him last night? Or did he not remember that Barry had told him that?

         Hank shook his head and curled in on himself. “I don’t want to go back.”

_Shit._ Barry touched his shoulder, rubbing his thumb against it, trying to comfort Hank even a little. “You won’t. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

         Turning his head, Hank looked up at him with wide eyes. “You promise?”

         “I promise.” Barry gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

         Ever so slowly, Hank uncurled himself, stretching out his legs. “Everything still kind of hurts.”

         “I’m not surprised,” Barry sighed. He stood and went to the bags he’d left by the table. “Dr. Newell left me with some ibuprofen. He said once you were a little more aware you could take them.” Barry found the little white bottle, shook two pills out, and got some water before returning to the bed. He wasn’t sure how much ibuprofen would help, but it was something.

         Hank accepted the pills and water, downing them at once.

         Barry took the empty cup back and set it aside. He cleared his throat. “Kind of hate to ask, but, Hank, do you know where you are?”

         “Where I am?” Hank asked, blinking slowly. “I am with Barry.”

         Well, Barry supposed that was a small success. He at least wasn’t forgetting Barry was there any more. “Yeah. You are. We’re in a motel.”

         Hank looked around. “Oh.” He rubbed at the bandages on his hand. “Okay.”

         That went well. At least, Barry thought it did. Not that there was really a chance of it going badly. “Okay,” Barry repeated.

         “Barry?”

         "Yeah?”

         “Why a motel?” Hank didn’t sound bothered, more curious.

         Barry debated his answer. “Uh, well, it was just… easier? But I don’t know how long we can stay here. I’ll have to come up with something else soon,” he said. Explaining that he had no idea where Hank lived, plus that there was no way Barry could take him to his own apartment seemed like it would be a bit much for Hank at the moment. Hopefully he wouldn’t ask too many questions.

         Hank was quiet for a moment. “We could use one of the safe houses?”

_Huh, that’s a good idea,_ Barry thought. Preferably it would be one of the safe houses that wasn’t as known to the rest of Hank’s men. That reminded him of something. “Uh, right, that works. Just not the third one.”

         “You know about third safe house?” Hank asked, brows raised.

         “Long story. Ahkmal told me about it. But I have no clue where the others are,” Barry replied. “Do you think you’d be up to giving me directions to one?”

         Licking his lips, Hank nodded. “I can try. Are we leaving now?”

         “No,” Barry assured. “No, we’re staying here the rest of today. I already paid when I got breakfast. If you feel ready, we can leave tomorrow. If not we can stay another day.”

         Hank looked into Barry’s eyes properly. “Thank you.”

         Barry nodded, not sure what to say. Hank didn’t really need to thank him, Barry wanted to help. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for what had happened, not to mention having killed most of his people. Barry wasn’t planning on bringing that up any time soon, though. Hank needed to recover and that wouldn’t help.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is lyrics from the song "There's No Business Like Show Business"


End file.
